


Hey Eighteen

by PBJellie



Series: South Park Kink Meme Requests [15]
Category: South Park
Genre: Age Difference, Arguing, Cheating, Cowgirl Position, F/M, I'm not sorry for this, MILFs, POV Second Person, Smut, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Kyle meets Laura Tucker for adult reasons. Because at eighteen, he is an grown man, and he can do whatever he wants. Her having a husband is of little consequence, or so it seems.Written for the South Park Kink Meme."Kyle ends up having an affair with Laura Tucker because she likes her tall redheads."





	Hey Eighteen

**Author's Note:**

> So like, this is sort of dark in nature. It involves an eighteen year old boy sleeping with a much older woman. If that bothers you, you should duck out now. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy.
> 
> Title is a play on the song by Steely Dan titled "Hey Nineteen"

“We can't keep meeting like this,” it is out of your mouth like a shot. It sounds better in your head. More mysterious, older. In reality you sound like a eighteen year old boy who read one too many romance novels.

She laughs anyway. Which, in hindsight, is a sign. Most things here, in hindsight, can be seen as flashing neon signs warning you of what is to come. 

You didn't bide any warnings. You never did.

“You're so funny,” she chuckles, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. You know that she is indeed a natural blonde, and not just from the video Cartman and Butters passed around way back.

“Thanks, Laura,” You smile, teeth hidden. “You're pretty funny yourself. Pretty and funny. Pretty funny, get it?”

And she is laughing even harder in this cafe in the newly gentrified part of Denver. It claims to do something called urban rejuvenation, and the board outside boasts for every ten cups of coffee sold, someone knits an afghan for the homeless. You wonder if that's why Laura, you just call her Laura now, picked this location. 

You have a feeling she doesn't give a fuck, but she's always surprising you. 

“Oh, Kyle,” she sighs, and your hands touch from across the table, like in every Hollywood romance, ever. “I'm so happy to see you.” 

“I'm happy to see you, too,” you blush as your voice cracks. In private she calls you a strong man, but you're not so sure. “How was your week?” 

“Oh, you know, the bank,” she sighs, eyes wistfully looking at a dusty blanket hung against a window. It's a beige color now, but it looks like it might have once been a baby blue.

“Yeah,” you agree, sipping from the black coffee you ordered, her treat. You don't want to order something too childish, or too feminine, so you stick with plain coffee. A man's drink, at least according to your father.

“I booked us a hotel near here,” she whispers over a latte. “It's almost time for check in,” and you nod. You don't have a car, so you took the bus here. It's easier to meet at a cafe. It looks less suspicious.

Not that you thought this is anything less than true love. 

Love doesn't know age, you remind yourself in the moment. So your soulmate is a little bit older than you, it doesn't matter. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You are soulmates. You have to be. You can feel it. 

In hindsight, you are wrong. You are very often, very wrong.

She hasn't missed any of your basketball games. You’re a point guard, a damn good one, and she sits in the bleachers and cheers. You catch her out of the corner of your eye as you play. 

Craig’s on the team too, but he just sits on the bench. He’s not very good, but it’s a small school. Your team takes what they can get. Thirteen people showed up to tryouts, and the coach didn’t want Butters on the team after the fire incident.

Your parents can't be bothered to show up, but your girlfriend is always there. Your girlfriend having a husband, and two kids, one your age, is simply a wrinkle, you tell yourself. It happens. Laura likes to say, life happens. You say it sometimes, too. 

Well, you don’t say it anymore.

You sip your coffee and grimace at how bitter it is. You do not comment on the hotel, but you do leave your mostly full black coffee on the table and follow her to her minivan.

You ride in the front seat, hand over hers as she shifts the van into reverse. You see her smile. She loves physical contact. More than you do, it seems. But you like to make her happy, so it's a small concession.

But who wouldn’t like the advances of a smart, collected older woman? You appreciate that she has real word experience, and at least some grasp on consequences. Thinking on it now, you don’t think she really understood consequences, but eighteen year old you is so sure. 

You park at the hotel; it’s nice. Doors to the rooms are on the inside of the building, not the outside, like when your family took that trip to Jersey. It’s not a motel, it’s a hotel. Not a fancy hotel, looking back on it, but in the moment it seems incredibly luxurious. Like all the hotels she takes you to.

Usually you had to share a room with your brother, or worse yet, a bed with your brother and a room with your parents. Your mom snores at night, and your dad, well he just spends most of the night scrolling through his phone. It’s worse when you know what he’s doing. You like that Mrs. Tucker- Laura, doesn’t have a smartphone. She just has an old flip phone. 

Not that you’re allowed to text or call. Now you see this as a red flag. You are great at finding red flags, now. So great you see them when they’re not there. You see them in the relationships with the girls and boys you date in college, and your friends relationships. 

“You alright, honey?” She asks, batting her eyes and patting the bed. You nod. You remember thinking how pretty she is, how her hair hangs perfectly around her face. You smile, and lay down next to her. 

The pet names make adult you feel sick. 

She kisses you first. She always starts the kissing. But that’s alright. It’s nice to let someone else take charge for a minute, or an hour. 

You know you never last an hour, though. You’re sure you never made it past five minutes with her, but she never says anything. You don’t think that Thomas lasts much longer. Thomas isn’t an eighteen year old boy, though maybe he was when they met. She doesn’t talk about Thomas, and for that you are grateful. 

She’s unzipping your pants, and you’re wiggling out of them. They stick around your ass, and you struggle to peel them off. You can still hear her laughing. Not a mean laugh. Laura doesn’t have a mean laugh. 

Now you think skinny jeans are dumb, but they were so cool when you were a kid. Not that you thought you were a kid, but you were. You were a kid until you graduated college. You’ve been practicing law for two years and sometimes you still feel like a kid.

“I have condoms,” she whispers. “But I’m on the pill, if you want to,” her words trail off mid sentence. You grunt a response in favor of no condom. She always gives you the option and you always pick no condom. They feel gross in your hands. 

Adult you can realize it’s because you’re too young for this. If you’re grossed out by the slick coating of a condom, you’re not ready to have sex. But you are so sure you are ready. It’s not like Laura is your first. 

But Laura is the first to pin you to the bed, biting your neck as she pulls her dress over her head. You moan, bucking your hips upward as she pulls away to yank it the rest off the way off, tossing it on the hotel floor. You fumble with the clasp of her bra, scratching her in the process of trying to unlatch it. You can’t. One time out of five you are successful, if that.

She does it for you. She does lots of things for you. Mostly, you just lay back and enjoy the ride. You think about how lucky you are she loves you as she pulls down your boxers, letting the waistband synch around your knees. She tells you she loves you, or is it this? You can’t remember if she said I love you, or I love this. But she’s pumping your cock in her hand and you love that.

All you can hear is love, and that’s good enough for you. Especially when someone has their hand on your dick. It’s still good enough if someone is touching you like that. Somethings don’t change.

“Laura,” you mutter, eyes half lidded. She smiles, and it meets her eyes, like it always does. You know it’s real, because of the Duchenne marker. You learned about it in anatomy class. She thinks you’re so smart. 

You are smart, sometimes, about some things. 

“I wanna ride you, big boy,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss you. She kisses with her mouth open and she is the best person you have ever kissed. She still is. You fight down the fear that you’re not as good, and yield to her ministrations. You let her control the situation. You think that maybe spit is leaking out of your mouth, but she doesn’t say anything about it. 

She does break off the kiss, eventually. And you’re hard as she grinds herself against you, only her panties seperating you. She’s not wet, not like Heidi would get. She says it’s because she’s had kids, and you think, privately, that’s the least sexy thing you’ve ever heard about someone’s vagina. 

It’s not so unsexy that it kills your boner. You’re still watching eagerly as she peels her underwear away. She smiles, scooting down to temporarily put your dick in her mouth. Her tongue slides up the shaft and you moan, hands clutching her shoulders. 

She stops after a few seconds, dismounting with a wet pop. She kisses you once, mouth closed this time. 

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” She asks, and you nod. She’s on her knees, looming over you, and you try to look at her face, but all you see is her tits. They’re nice, large, but not too large. You’re not thinking, and you grab one, pulling on the nipple as she strokes your dick a few more times. 

She doesn’t warn you when she lowers herself onto you. You can see her eyes flutter, before yours close. She’s warm and tight. You read somewhere that girls never get loose, that it’s a muscle and doesn’t work the way men seem to think it does. But even if they could, she’s not. 

She’s sitting right beneath your hips, and she’s heavy, but it’s a good feeling. A solid feeling. You open your eyes to see her, biting her lip as she looks back. She’s taken all of you, and shit does it feel good. You grab her breasts again as she pulls up slowly. You take in a sharp breath as she drops back down. 

“God, Kyle,” she keens, lifting back up, “you’re so big. Thick.” 

You nod, because you’re an idiot. Or sex makes you an idiot. Or maybe you’re just an idiot whenever she’s involved. The point of the matter is an attractive woman is on top of you, bouncing on your dick, and all you can think to do is nod. She’s smiling though, and the marker is there. 

“Fuck, fuck me,” she screams, her hand rubbing over her clit as she continues riding you. You don’t nod, but you mumble out a yeah, or a yes, or a please, something like that. The sex makes you go brainless. All you can think about is your dick, and how it’s in her, and how much she is enjoying it. “Grab my breasts,” she orders, panting. 

You do. You grab them and press them together and she slows down for a moment. You think maybe she is tired, and ready for a change in position, but she leans down and kisses you. You’re caught off guard, but you kiss back. You kiss back, and she’s grinding against you. 

You deflate as she pulls away, but before you can be upset she’s riding you again. She tilts her head back, mouth half open as she takes all of you. It’s a great feeling, and you’re close. 

“Close,” you croak, trying to steady your breathing. Anything to prolong her on top of you, you’d do anything. You try to focus on something less sexy, not a big chested blonde hopping on and off your dick. 

You can’t. All you can think of is Laura, and how great Laura is. And how you must be soulmates, you must, because if you weren’t this wouldn’t feel so good. 

“Don’t, boy,” she says, slowing down. She’s rubbing herself again, and Christ, it’s hot. You don’t even believe in Christ, but damn. You gulp. “You can hold on a little longer, can’t you?” She asks. 

“For you,” you say. You would do anything for her. 

And you do last longer, at least a little bit. Your dick is half out as you come. She sighs, but follows it with a laugh, frantically rubbing herself as she continues to ride you. Her muscles contract, and she screams, semen dripping down her legs.

Before you can fully take in the sight of your girlfriend sweaty and full of your cum, there’s a knock on the door. It’s not really a knock, more of a banging. It’s frantic and loud, with no real pattern. You can hear shouting. 

“Open the goddamn door, Laura,” and you recognize the voice. He comes to the game too, and he yells loudly for the coach to play Craig. “Laura, I know you’re in there. You used the joint account to book this room! I saw the Expedia email! Open the fucking door!” 

“Fuck off!” She shouts, throwing her dress over her head, not bothering with her underwear or her bra. In any other situation you’d think it was hot, her tits doing what they pleased beneath the fabric, but in this moment, you are scared shitless. 

You think that you piss yourself when she opens the door, her bra hanging lopsided off the nightstand. Maybe this is the moment, you think, the moment where she leaves him for you. Where she stops hiding you from the world. Where she lets everyone else know that you’re official. 

“What the hell are you doing,” he asks, voice low as you duck beneath the blanket, leaving just enough room to peek. “Who’s that?” He asks, louder. 

“None of your fucking business, Tom,” she sneers. You can see her flipping her hair, and you assume she’s rolling her eyes. 

“That’s-” he takes a step closer to you. He’s huge, at least a few inches taller than you and bulky, like a linebacker or a lumberjack. Definitely not a basketball player.

“Don’t you touch him,” she rushes to him, trying to block him from seeing you. “He didn’t do shit to you.” 

“He’s fucking my wife!” He roars, and you think the room is shaking. You duck underneath the blanket, but he pulls it away. “Kyle?” He asks, dropping it onto the bed. He’s no longer looking at you. He’s looking at Laura and he’s glaring. 

“Get away from him, you piece of shit,” she says, pushing him with both hands. He doesn’t so much as take a step back. He is a brick wall.

“You are sleeping with Kyle? Craig’s friend?” He asks, staring her down. He doesn’t even glance at you. 

“It’s not any of your business who I sleep with,” she says, hands across her chest. You glance at her bra, wondering if you should give it to her. 

You’re glad that you didn’t. It would have been bad to interrupt them. You know that now.

“He’s a child,” he’s still just standing there, but his fists are clenched. “He’s the same as our child, you fucking freak.” 

“My child,” she says, almost before he can finish. You see Thomas’ face fall, crumpling like piece of paper headed for the waste bin. “He’s my child, not yours.” 

“I thought we weren’t talking about that,” he says, eyes partially closed. “We agreed never to bring that up.” 

“I didn’t agree to anything,” she says, turning back to look at you. You think she’s stunning, even as you’re terrified for your life. “Anyways, you cheated on me first. Remember that? I remember that you were a cheating bastard, long before I was.” 

“We talked about that,” he inhales, then blows it out his nose. He looks like a bull, flaring his nostrils before he charges. “We talked about it with a therapist, and agreed that it was a bad thing that I did.” 

“And now I’m doing the same,” you can see her rolling her eyes this time. “I’ve found someone younger and more attractive than you. How does that make you feel? Make you feel inadequate?”

“Is this shit even legal?” Thomas asks, looking back at you. “Are you going to jail for raping a kid because you’re mad at me?” 

“He’s a man, Thomas,” she says, joining him at staring at you. “More of a man than you.” 

“Then why don’t you share a checking account with him?” He asks. “Because he’s a fucking high school student. He’s a man and I’m your meal ticket? Got anything to say, big man?”

You realize he’s talking to you when they refuse to look away. You fidget, checking to make sure the blanket is still covering you. Being naked in this argument would be the final indignity. And you, you sometimes smart bastard, you say the worst possible thing. 

“Does Craig know you’re not his dad?” 

“You listen here, son,” the word son makes you bristle. You realize he could be your dad, and for the first time, but not the last, it sinks in that Laura could be your mom. “Craig doesn’t need to know about any of this, including your escapades.” 

You nod, mouth slack. 

“It’s time to fucking go, Laura,” he growls, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her out of the room. The door clicks locked behind them. 

You sit in the bed, naked, trying to take in what just happened. Laura doesn’t even tell you goodbye. She always says goodbye, and she always tells you where you’ll meet next.

It takes you three weeks to realize it’s over. 

It takes you a year to realize it’s a good thing.


End file.
